Batman Begins: Uneasy Lies the Head
by linaerys
Summary: Two years after Bruce Wayne's disappearance, Rachel meets Dr. Crane. Part 3 of 3 posted.
1. Chapter 1

"Miss Dawes, I'd like you to meet Dr. Jonathan Crane," said Judge Fadden. Rachel tried to compose her features in some pleasant arrangement, but there was no disguising her enmity toward the judge. "Dr. Crane is the assistant director of Arkham Asylum, and a very talented young psychiatrist," he continued. Rachel started to rise from her chair in the Gotham Law club, and found herself brought up short by the weird beauty of the man in front of her.

"No, don't get up," said Dr. Crane with a slight smile on his pillowy lips. His gaze through his glasses was both intent and dreamy. Rachel half smiled and extended her hand to him.

"And this is Miss Rachel Dawes. After putting herself through law school at Gotham University working as a paralegal in the DA's office, she has now fully joined their ranks. I look forward to seeing you argue, my dear," said Fadden unctuously. Rachel smiled blandly at him, her eyes cold. He was bent as, well, Alfred probably would have said "bent as a nine bob note". Rachel shied away from thinking of Alfred, of Wayne manor, and most of all of Bruce Wayne. Gone these two years, and if anyone had heard from him, they had not mentioned it to her.

"So young, and so accomplished," said Dr. Crane, in a voice that slid up her spine like a caress. He held her outstretched hand in his still, and she felt his fingers, cool and smooth, against hers.

"I could say the same for you," she said, grinning and lowering her chin a little. Dr. Crane's face wore an expression that couldn't decide whether to be modest or supercilious. He held her hand a moment longer before Judge Fadden guided him off to meet some of the other lawyers in the club.

* * *

"How do you stand it, Alfred?" Rachel asked. They stood together in the corner of the Wayne Tower's grand ballroom. Wayne Enterprise's philanthropy department threw this fundraiser every year, and every year the glitterati of Gotham turned out in their finest for $500 a plate and more to dance and be seen.

"Master Bruce will return, Miss Dawes," said Alfred quietly. "The Wayne name will not be reduced to this; be certain of it." Rachel smiled sadly at him for a moment, when she felt a cool touch on her arm that sent a pleasant shiver over her bare shoulders. She turned and saw Dr. Crane, looking like his namesake in elegant black and white. He had something of the stillness of that bird, a feeling that he would wait patiently and calmly until the moment came for action.

"Miss Dawes," he said, and let his touch on her arm linger just a moment too long, "lovely to see you again."

"You too, Dr. Crane," she said with a genuine smile.

"Would you care to waltz?" he asked. She turned to give her excuses to Alfred, but he had already gone. She sighed to herself—Alfred was always quick to absent himself at these parties whenever a young man came around. He did not want her pining over Bruce, she supposed.

Dr. Crane turned out to be an abstracted dancer, competent enough, but Rachel could tell he took no joy in it. "So, how do you know Judge Fadden?" she asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Dr. Crane pursed his lips for a moment.

"I really shouldn't say," he said, considering, "but then, I suppose you could find out easily enough." Rachel raised an eyebrow. "His son is a patient of mine," Dr. Crane continued. "It is a sad story, too much, perhaps, for such a lovely evening. And such lovely company," he added after too long a pause.

"I don't mind," she said quietly "I wouldn't be where I am if I turned away from sad stories." They were similar in height, and Rachel felt a moment of shock when his lambent blue eyes turned up toward hers.

"You know, sometimes I feel worse for my criminal patients than any others. Others, when they are cured, come out having hurt only themselves, but the criminally insane—" he spoke the phrase with a certain distaste "—they come out wracked with guilt, and will never be the same. George Fadden was an undiagnosed psychotic. If only he had been diagnosed earlier." Dr. Crane sighed and seemed to droop as if the thought weighed heavily on his slim shoulders.

"What did he do?" asked Rachel, shocked.

"Killed his girlfriend and their unborn child." Dr. Crane took his hand from her waist to push his glasses up his nose, and then replaced it.

"That's terrible," she said.

"Yes, for everyone involved," said Dr. Crane. "I have my differences with Judge Fadden's courtroom record, but the man and his family have suffered."

"That doesn't excuse—" Rachel started then checked herself. "No, you're right, no one should have to suffer that." Dr. Crane gave one of his little closed mouthed smiles, and pulled her in a little closer.

"I'm sorry to have upset you," he said quietly. "Would you like to take some air on the balcony." Rachel nodded and allowed him to lead her off the dance floor. The ballroom was seventy stories up, near to the top of Wayne Tower, and it was chilly on the balcony. Rachel shivered in her backless dress, and Dr. Crane obligingly draped his jacket over he shoulders.

"It looks so peaceful from up here," he said, echoing her thoughts. After a moment he took her hand. "You and I know the truth, though." Rachel pulled his jacket around herself and looked down into the misty streets.

hr 

"Yes, I'll testify on his behalf," said Dr. Crane. Perotta waved his hand impatiently. He was a relatively intelligent lieutenant in Falcone's organization, but that wasn't saying much.

"Yeah. Sure you will," Perotta said lazily.

"But . . .," continued Dr. Crane, trailing off.

"But what," said Perotta. He did not make it a question, and leaned menacingly across the table toward Crane. He gazed back at the thug for a moment, before continuing.

"I have a small request, for you, or your boss," he said without flinching.

"I can handle it, but why should I?" Perotta asked, leaning back and cracking his knuckles.

"I don't want the case in front of the new ADA. Her inexperience could prove useful . . . but I think it might make an enemy of her, too soon." Dr. Crane steepled his hands and cocked his head to one side. Perotta shrugged.

"Her, huh? Too easy. The DA's office owes us favors out the wazoo. Of course, this means you owe me . . ." Crane smiled unpleasantly and inclined his head toward Perotta.

"Of course."

* * *

Rachel was only mildly surprised when a messenger delivered a note written in a spidery hand asking for her attendance at dinner. There was something otherworldly, or perhaps just old-fashioned about the good doctor, and Rachel smiled when she looked at the note. Compared to Bruce, Dr. Crane was a little effete, but then Bruce was kind of a bull in a china shop. It might be nice to spend time with a man so controlled. There was something under that beautiful, cold exterior, Rachel thought, and she shivered with anticipation. She scribbled an assent on the back of the note and handed it back to the messenger.

The restaurant named on the note was new and fabulously expensive restaurant in upper Gotham just where the good neighborhoods started to give way to the slums that led into the Narrows. When she arrived she noticed that the décor was cool and clean, with frosted glass floors and tables, and black sable upholstery and blue light filtering down through the translucent ceiling glass, and she smiled to herself, thinking how well Dr. Crane had chosen surroundings to match himself.

He met her at the bar where the drink specialties were, of course, ice-cold vodkas, fruit infused, and served in glasses that looked like modern sculptures. "Sorry about the location," said Dr. Crane when he arrived, "I had to choose something close to the asylum in case I have to go back quickly." He patted the pager at his belt. "And anyhow, I like the atmosphere here. It is soothing, after the madhouse." He gave her a slightly mad grin to match the words, and she smiled uncomfortably.

"Thank you for the invitation, Dr. Crane," she said after a moment.

"Certainly, Miss Dawes," he replied gravely. He extended his arm to her, and she climbed down off the stool. "I wish you would call me Jonathan," he said as a waitress guided them to their table. Rachel laughed shortly.

"I don't know if I can," she said. "You don't seem that casual." She tried to laugh coquettishly, but something in his demeanor forbid it. "You could try calling me Rachel first."

"Rachel," he said quietly, after he helped her into her seat. She flushed a little, without knowing why.

"I guess that's okay," she said with a flirtatious smile. They talked with surprising ease over dinner. He laced his conversation with frequent, self-deprecating smiles, and spoke about a childhood that sounded comfortable, but lonely, and his years in school, excelling, but still isolated from his classmates.

"They were there to party," he said, with an ironic emphasis on the word, "but that never held much attraction for me." He looked down at his food for a moment then back up at her, so the icy blue of his eyes shocked her again. "I think, because I always knew what I wanted, and some of them never will."

"I understand," she said, her heart going out to him. "I was too busy working my way through school to have time for any of that. It _is _lonely." She put her hand out to cover his.

After dinner he walked her to the curb and they lingered there a moment. "I had a lovely time, Rachel," he said. They stood face to face and eye to eye there. Steam rose from the manhole covers and the light from the streetlamps filtered eerily around them.

"Me too . . . Jonathan," she said then blushed. He smiled at her awkwardness.

"I can drive you home," he said, "but I really must go check on some things at Arkham first. I can call you a car . . . ." Rachel demurred. "I won't have you taking the subway home this late," he said insistently.

"I do it every night," she protested.

"Not tonight." Rachel did not usually like being managed, but something about the finality of his words silenced her. "Or you can come with me, and take a tour, if you're up for it." Rachel felt that his words were some obscure challenge, and she jerked up her chin.

"Of course. I'd love to see where you work." The inside of his car seemed close and claustrophobic, and Rachel began to regret the vodka she had consumed at dinner. At the time, the warmth had been seductive, but now the walls of the car seemed too near, and she felt her head spinning. Outside the windows of the car, the faces of Gotham's grimmest inhabitants rose up like revenants. Rachel shuddered and looked over at her companion instead. He drove carefully, but unconcerned, as if he could be taking a drive in the country for all the difference it made.

Rachel swallowed hard. "How can you work up here?" she asked.

"It's not easy, but I don't have much choice," he said as he pulled the car into the garage beneath Arkham. "The asylum pays quite a bit of money for protection, both legal and otherwise." He looked at her ruefully. "I hope you're not disappointed in me to learn that."

"No," she said cautiously, "sometimes you just have to get along without making waves." Dr. Crane smiled to himself at that, and Rachel wondered why.

Arkham Asylum was enveloped in an odd smell, a miasma of old hospitals and something worse underneath, a scent of smoky decay. Rachel squared her shoulders as she followed Dr. Crane into the building, and tried to ignore it. He showed her to his office and asked her to wait a moment while he checked on some of the more fractious inmates.

She sat down in his chair, a sturdy thing of leather and wood that felt a hundred years old, like much of the rest of the office, the ancient typewriter, the sheaves of yellowed paper bound with twine on the bookshelves. Even the phone was an old rotary made of scarred black plastic. He should spend less money on protection, more on redecoration, she thought, a little hysterically, although the more sober part of her lauded him for putting every bit of the budget into caring for the inmates.

She did not remember, later, falling asleep, or even drifting off, but next thing she knew . . . _she stood in a field as a storm closed in around her . . . no, it was a dark cave, like the one Bruce fell into on that fateful day . . . and there was Bruce, standing stern and forbidding, his back to her, no matter how much she screamed, he wouldn't help her up . . . she was on a train hurtling through Gotham City, heading toward the dark maw of Wayne Tower, and a thug with a knife advanced on her, and her body betrayed her, freezing immobile with fear . . . _and she woke to Dr. Crane's voice and his hands shaking her shoulders.

She sat up sobbing, and looked wildly around her. Dr. Crane kneeled on the floor next to the desk and looked up at her, his eyes wide and imploring. "It's alright, Rachel," he said, as he stood up and put his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest as her heartbeat slowed. He stroked her hair softly, then cradled one of his hands against her cheek and tilted her face up toward him. "It was only a dream. Are you feeling better now?" Rachel nodded unsteadily, and Dr. Crane put his finger to her lips. "Good. I'll get you home now."

They drove in silence as she tried to keep her breathing under control, keep panic from overwhelming her again. At the door of her apartment building he came around to her side of the car and helped her out. "I'm sorry, Rachel," he said as she dug in her purse for the keys. She looked up at him, and he ran his hands through his thick black hair, the only messy thing about him. "I shouldn't have taken you there. Forgive me?"

"Nonsense," she said, still with a slight tremor in her voice. "I shouldn't have had so much to drink." She half smiled at him. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers softly, for a quick moment that still left her dizzy.

"I'm so glad to hear that," he said. Dr. Crane bowed his head slightly and walked back to his car, as she opened the door to her building. Rachel walked up the stairs, slowly, uncertainly. In the dim light of her bathroom she took off her makeup. Underneath the base and blusher, her face looked pale and sallow. She poured herself a glass of water and took down a book to read, curling up in an armchair near the window, unable to face the dreams that might be waiting for her in bed.


	2. Chapter 2

The day after their bizarre date, a bouquet of tall, pallid lilies arrived for Rachel at her office, with only the words "From Crane", written on the card in his peculiar handwriting. She could not decide what she thought of him, whether his odd affect and precise gestures were clumsily charming, or vaguely sinister. Or both. She sniffed at the flowers, but they had no scent, except perhaps the same vague chemical scent that lingered around Arkham Asylum. She was still deciding whether to ask around the office and see if anyone had a vase, or just put them in an empty juice bottle when Finch came storming in. He did not essay anger very convincingly, usually falling short somewhere closer to petty irritation, but he was as close as Rachel had ever seen.

"That bought and paid for, sniveling little piss-ant, pretty boy wind-up toy psychiatrist, fucking ruined my case against Grinnell," he said his voice rising in volume on each word. He slammed a folder down on Rachel's desk then looked at her sheepishly for a moment.

"What is it?" she asked, shortly. She did not want to waste time on one of Finch's little temper tantrums.

"Dr. Crane," he spat. "that lily-livered, little . . ."

"'Lily-livered'? Have you been watching Errol Flynn movies or something?" she asked, acting amused to cover her worry. "Tell me what happened without the eighteenth century insults, please."

"Well, you know the Grinnell case—open and shut, mob muscle job, killing a key witness against Perotta in that extortion case earlier this year—we were still hoping he'd turn state's evidence, but Falcone's got them all locked up tight—probably Grinnell made the mistake of having family he didn't want killed. Anyway, everything is going swimmingly, when they call that . . . well, they called Dr. Crane up on the stand and he has this song and dance about Grinnell being unhinged, and some shit about how the dead witness reminded Grinnell of his mother who abused him and it was only a matter of time before he had some kind of episode. In other words, total crap," said Finch. He was out of breath when he finished talking.

Rachel frowned and rubbed her forehead. "It does seem awfully co-incidental, that a mob killer would also be insane. Did our people examine him? Didn't we know an insanity plea was coming?"

"He tried to hang himself in his cell, because of his remorse, says Dr. Crane," explained Finch. "_I_ think he was coached, but our psychiatrist thinks it's possible Crane is right, although not likely."

"Well, there you have it," said Rachel. "Sometimes we have to accept a reasonable doubt like that. It's how the system is designed." Somehow this thought brought Bruce's face springing to her mind: his hangdog look when she slapped him—the last time they ever spoke. Bruce would be angry about this, maybe even angry enough to kill, but all Rachel could muster was resignation. She shook her head and looked back at Finch.

"Who are the flowers from?" he asked from the doorway. "Look's like a funeral arrangement," he said with a short bark of a laugh, then looked worried. "It's not, is it?"

"Nah," she said, grateful the card was still in her hand, "just a belated good-luck-at-work bouquet." She shrugged and Finch seemed convinced.

After he left Rachel took out the card again and turned it over in her hands. The image on the facing side was so under-saturated it could have been anything, ribbons, white doves, bleached bones. Rachel shuddered at the morbid direction her thoughts were taking. Gotta take a vacation, she thought bleakly. Yeah, two months after starting work, not likely.

She thought of calling Dr. Crane to ask him about the Grinnell case, but something in the image of him sitting in that ancient office, talking to her on a battered phone, his too-lovely lips shaping every word so carefully brought her up short. She wrote a note instead, and sent it by messenger, thanking him for the flowers, and inquiring obliquely about his new patient.

Dr. Crane surprised her by calling the next day, while she was eating a sandwich at her desk. She swallowed hastily and heard him say, "Am I interrupting anything, Miss Dawes."

"Rachel is fine," she said abruptly, in her work voice, harder and more authoritatively than she usually spoke in social situations.

"Ah. Well," he said, and she thought she heard a faint amusement in his voice. "Your note sounded so . . . official. Would you care to come up here and see Mr. Grinnell?"

"Sure," she agreed, with a little shudder at having to darken those doors again. "In the day, this time."

"Certainly. At your convenience," he said, and he hung up the phone without a goodbye, leaving her staring at the receiver for a moment before she replaced it on the cradle.

Dr. Crane met her at the door of Arkham later that afternoon. Although certain parts of the inside of the building had been modernized, the façade was still that of a Victorian mansion, paint gone and its little decorative follies falling to ruin. The light of day did not flatter it, and Rachel could see now the places where cinderblock outbuildings had been inexpertly grafted onto the main structure. Crane himself looked like something out of Poe, thought Rachel involuntarily—the House of Usher has a new master. But she was hardly the consumptive heroine of those stories; perhaps that would keep her safe.

Grinnell was in a bare cell on a hall close to Dr. Crane's office. "He is wracked with guilt," said Dr. Crane into her ear as she looked in through the small, meshed-in window. He had a way of getting closer to her she wanted him. "We've kept sharp objects, and possible strangulation threats away from him in this cell. I think after some pharmacological therapy, we may be able to offer him some more comfortable accommodations."

"What does the director think?" she asked harshly. Rachel wondered, a little, if this would be the end of his charming little attentions to her, but went doggedly ahead. Her work, she told herself, was more important. "I mean, I'm sure you called in a consult for such a high profile evaluation." Dr. Crane smiled obsequiously and clasped his hands together.

"You can ask him yourself," he said, with what sounded like well-contained glee. "Follow me, but don't spend too long. The air is not very good in there." With this cryptic remark he turned on his heel and she nearly stumbled trying to keep up with him. He stopped walking as abruptly as he started and opened an unlocked door down a corridor that looked just like many of the others.

The smell that greeted her was a sickly sweet, alcoholic smell and Rachel nearly gagged on it as she backed away. She could see a grey-haired man in a lab coat lying insensible on a folding cot within, a washcloth covering his face. "But I'm afraid he's too far gone on ether to answer you," continued Dr. Crane as if he had never ceased talking.

"How can you keep him like that?" asked Rachel, backing away from him.

"What would you have me do? Kill him?" asked Dr. Crane with a delicate emphasis on the last two words. "He is an addict, Miss Dawes, with no family, no friends. All I can do is keep him comfortable." He paused a moment and licked his lips. Nervousness? Rachel wondered. "I'm sorry I had to show it you like that," he said with a concern that seemed genuine, and odd change from the chill of his earlier words. "We're falling apart at the seams here, Rachel. Just like the rest of Gotham." She frowned, distressed. Yes, she could see his desperation, trying to hold the asylum together with both hands, beset within by incompetence and without by criminals. I shouldn't have been so quick to criticize, she thought.

"I'm sorry I misjudged you . . . ," she said, trailing off. Seeing him dressed in a lab coat, wearing the expression of a solicitous undertaker, she couldn't quite bring herself to call him by his first name.

"What I do here is . . . odd, I know," he said. "Still, I'd like to show you something that might ease your mind." He took her by the elbow and walked her around the grounds. Later she remembered the smooth cadences of his voice, soothing, telling her about the lawn where the inmates could exercise, the occupational therapy, so helpful for rehabilitation, although she could not remember what the grounds had looked like. That night she slept for ten dreamless hours, and awoke feeling groggy an hour past her alarm.

Still, the first thought on her mind was how nice and claming her time at Arkham had been, and how delightful the company.

* * *

When Rachel got to work someone had thrown away her flowers—she asked around the office and one of the secretaries said they had been stinking up the whole floor. She frowned, hearing that, for she remembered no smell. Oh well, perhaps they had decayed quickly. Gotham's air was notoriously bad for growing things. She would put some plant food in the water next time. If there was a next time.

"Well, what did you think," said Finch as Rachel was drinking her coffee. "Do you think Grinnell is crazy?"

"I'm not a doctor, but I'm going to trust the opinions of those that are," she said sharply.

"I don't understand you, Rachel," said Finch as he massaged his forehead. "You were so idealistic. Did they buy you off this easily? Or are you just naïve?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I know it seems suspicious, but maybe this is the truth this time. I see no reason to doubt the word of Dr. Crane. He runs Arkham very well under the circumstances, and you can't ask more than that." She glared at him. "We're all trying our best here. Maybe some things slip through the cracks, but if you saw how hard he was working . . ."

"So now he's one of your heroes, Rachel? Did you see the same Arkham I have? Antiquated cells, frequent shock treatments, dirt everywhere? It's disgusting."

"Everyone's low on funds right now. The depression really never ended, not for the public sector, anyway," she said dully, trying to end the conversation.

"What about the next time he does this? Are you just going to turn a blind eye?" Finch asked.

"Next time, I'll look at the facts and tell you what I think, as I did this time. If there is a next time." She started shuffling her paperwork, and Finch took the hint.

Later that week, when Dr. Crane sent a note by messenger inviting her up to the asylum, she felt no compunction against taking the car he sent, or going up there at night. Yes, he is doing good here, as best he can, she thought, as they sped through the streets, weaving in and out of the slums of the Narrows. The yellow of the gaslights that illuminated the ancient and decaying district seemed less sinister to her this time.

The driver dropped her around a side entrance and Dr. Crane let her in. This time he dressed in what she supposed passed for casual with him, a light shirt in a medium blue, unbuttoned a little at the neck, and a well pressed pair of black pants. "Come in," he said beckoning, with that comma of a smile that never touched his eyes.

"You live here, at the asylum?" she asked as he showed her into a small, neat apartment. The walls were decorated with Audubon prints, including one of a whooping crane, standing on one leg and bending down with its scarlet head and long beak to snatch a fish.

He saw her looking and made a moue. "That's my favorite," he said dryly, "and the only original."

"It's beautiful," she breathed. He nodded in acknowledgement of her compliment.

"You look tired," he said, and she made a face. He looked her blankly. "Would you like something refreshing?" The drink he brought her tasted of mint and anise, flavors that she ordinarily did not like, but seemed to clear her head, and energize her.

Rachel found herself speaking volumes about growing up with her mother, a housekeeper who had ambitions for her daughter well beyond the drudgery of service, and more about Bruce, things she had never spoken to anyone about. She finally stopped herself when she realized that her throat was getting dry again.

"How long have I been talking?" she asked. "I've never told anyone those things. Why would I tell you?" she asked quietly, mostly to herself.

"I'm very good at what I do," said Dr. Crane, regarding her intently. His vowels were very round, Rachel noticed. "Let me get you a glass of water, and then why don't you lie down on the couch for a while. You can sleep here." The word 'sleep' seemed to cast some spell over her, and before he returned with the water she had stretched out on the couch, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, her brown hair flung out around her.

Dr. Crane went into his study and turned off the tape recorder. Most of it was girlish drivel, but her relationship with the Wayne boy could yield some worthwhile secrets, if he ever resurfaced, and Dr. Crane kept the records of all his sessions. More interesting than the content of her soliloquy was the fact that it came so easily.

He turned on his pocket recorder that he used for taking notes, then thought better of it and got out a notebook, just in case she woke up and heard. The drug was a difficult balance, especially for one taken orally; the stimulant acted quickly, the sedative slowly, and in between, his magic ingredient lowered her inhibitions enough to speak her secrets. Of course, she trusted him to some degree in the first place, and women especially were notorious for allowing a man to believe he had received some special confidence, when in reality they told everyone.

_Subject RD's inhibitions lowered by sample 189,_ he wrote, _but still no indication whether the effect is anymore reliable than that of ethanol. Less expected, and thus less guarded against, at least._

His professors had always insisted that no drug could alter a person's fundamental values. They could lower inhibitions, alter personalities, but in an individual with strong morals, those would remain. Idealistic fools, he thought. Morals are easy to hang onto when food is plentiful and life is easy, but without that, well, Gotham was a case in point of how quickly ideals can slip, when the need and opportunity are great enough. He had high hopes for this particular concoction.

_Will attempt to administer a regular schedule of the dosage, see if repeated exposure increases the effect._

The inmates at the asylum made good subjects for some of his drug tests, especially those drugs that fogged the memory, but in order to test the ones that could alter personalities, he needed subjects who were relatively stable to begin with.

Rachel awoke feeling refreshed the next day, although embarrassed to be still on Dr. Crane's couch. He had put a blanket over her sometime during the night. She heard him stirring as the sun filtered down through the drawn curtains and debated trying to leave before he emerged.

She had thrown her wrap around her and was opening the door when Dr. Crane said from behind her: "The Narrows is not much better at dawn than in the middle of the night, and you live a long way from here." He sounded almost threatening to her skewed early morning perception.

"I'll be fine," she said grumpily.

"Stay, have some coffee, and I'll have someone take you home a little later," he said. He wore a dark blue robe of some soft and heavy fabric. She wondered how he came by such a rich wardrobe on what must not be a large income, but perhaps what he saved on rent he could spend on clothes.

"You never did tell me why you live up here," she said, relenting. She put down her purse and wrap again.

"It's easier, when I'm called to the asylum at all hours of the night, just to be right here," he said. He looked at her intently, and Rachel had the odd impression that he was observing her as he might one of his inmates. She shook her head to clear it a little.

"I'd love some of that coffee," she said. "I'm useless in the morning without it."

Rachel was glad to leave his company later that morning, but in the evening, found herself longing for the languor she had felt lying on his couch, and the sense of ease. They had talked for a long time, she remembered, but about what she was unsure.

And so every few days Arkham and its mysterious master drew her there. Some times he took her out to dinner or a ballet, but more often she fell asleep on his couch. Their relationship remained trapped, she felt, on some odd level between friendship and something more. He greeted her and bid her goodbye with a chaste kiss on the lips, and sometimes placed a proprietary hand on the small of her back, but nothing beyond that.

After a few weeks she could barely sleep in her own apartment, and visited him even more often. "I feel like one of your patients," she said one day. "Maybe you should get a couch with one raised end, like in the movies."

"I have a treatment room with one of those," he said with a raised eyebrow.

_From the Notebooks of Dr. Jonathan Crane . . ._

Subject RD has shown increasing dependence on sample 192. Difficulty sleeping and performing at work without its effects. Also, noticed decreased levels of inquisitiveness in subject and greater acceptance of some morally questionable practices observed at asylum. May be effect of Dose F rather than sample 192 as subject cannot question what she does not remember.

Memo: decrease percentage of Dose F over next few weeks to observe effects.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mom, I called you last weekend, don't you remember?" Rachel asked, a little exasperated. "You told me about your roses. You said the hybrid tea roses were coming on well." Rachel sighed. "I know we talked, I spoke to Dr. Crane about it after."

"You talked to your psychiatrist about me?" asked Mrs. Dawes.

"He's just a friend, Mom, it wasn't like that," said Rachel.

"You called last Saturday, you say? Why don't I remember that?" asked Mrs. Dawes. "Oh well, old age setting in, I suppose."

"You're not old yet, Mom," said Rachel automatically. "You're only fifty-five."

"Which is why I think you're trying to pull the wool over these eyes." She laughed. "I know, never my honest Rachel. You could never lie to me, or anyone else." They spoke for a few more minutes, and then hung up, leaving Rachel feeling a little unsettled. Of course they had spoken; she called her mother every Saturday no matter what. She wondered, as she often did after their conversations, if she should be visiting her mother more often. The little cottage was only an hour train ride away from Gotham, and it was lovely to see the green rolling fields after the dirty gray of the city, but the route took her past Wayne Manor, and brought up memories she would rather leave forgotten.

Forgotten, forgotten, there was something else she was supposed to do today—yes, a brief for Finch. She sighed and ran a brush through her hair. Things had been very tense at the office lately, culminating with the scene on Wednesday . . .

"I don't know what has come over you lately Rachel. Your work is shoddy, the defense attorneys seem to know every move before you make it, and your cross examinations have been weak at best. If you were anyone else, I'd say you were being purposefully incompetent to let these scumbags off, but with you . . ." he let the question hang in the air, unspoken.

"I've just been really tired lately, Kyle," she had said. He gave her a sympathetic look.

"I wish I could cut you some slack, Rachel, but even in Gotham there are other people who want to be district attorneys. If you don't complete this brief on the Mignella case by Saturday evening, and or if the boss man doesn't think it's top notch, they're going to ask you to take a leave of absence. Perhaps indefinitely."

She had not told her mother about that exchange, or even mentioned it to Crane, and instead threw herself into the work. Today she would finish, and prove to the office that it was just a momentary lapse for her. She tugged on her boots and put her hair up in a ponytail, and went to cocoon herself in the library.

* * *

_From the notebooks of Dr. Jonathan Crane . . ._

_Reducing Dose F for Subject RD presents more challenges than anticipated. Subject becomes very suspicious whenever she encounters missing memories. Dose F suppresses subject's inquisitive personality, but only temporarily._

_Secondary problem: necessity of inventing false memories becomes tedious, especially with regard to RD's friends and family. Invented conversations with co-workers slightly more profitable but still not efficient use of time._

_Conclusion: must entirely stop dosages of F—perhaps injection of Sample 225 will effect more permanent personality changes._

Dr. Crane blew on the ink in his notebook for a moment before shutting it carefully. _Too much writing this week_. _I need a new assistant_, he thought, as he massaged a cramp out of his hand. His last one had suffered an accident with a too-large dose of the memory-erasing drug after first suffering an unfortunate case of conscience. _These people are like a plague_, he thought, as he pulled on his lab coat and smoothed out the wrinkles on the arms. At least the inmates were in no position to complain about helping him with his experiments, but some of them were a bit too unreliable for his more delicate work, and certainly, none of them could be trusted with a typewriter.

He went down to his lab in the basement to check on his supplies of sedatives, and on the way passed by the orderly station. "Ms. Hamilton," he said to the dull, heavy-set woman who worked the weekend shift, "please make up an empty room with a bed, an IV, and some restraints. We may have a new transfer here tonight."

* * *

Rachel dressed carefully that night, in a long burgundy dress, once Bruce's favorite color for her. She was supposed to meet Dr. Crane for a late dinner, followed by, well . . . as always there was an open-ended kind of promise in his voice when he invited her. A tone that earlier had given her a frisson of anticipation, now made her wonder why she continued to see him. She felt more clear-headed this evening, after a focused day of research in the Gotham University Law Library, than she had in a while.

Nearly a week had passed since her last evening with Dr. Crane, and certain nagging doubts had begun to trouble her mind. Why did they always go to restaurants he chose, places quiet, private, and always too close to the looming presence of Arkham? Why did she never object? Why did he know so much about her and she so little about him beyond a sketchy picture of him as an intellectual and lonely child, and a concrete one of his complete devotion to his patients? Was there nothing more, some stories from work, some friends besides her?

_He has patient confidentiality to respect,_ she reminded herself as she brushed out her hair and knotted it in a bun at the nape of her neck, _and he is supremely dedicated to his work_. Tonight, Rachel resolved, she would learn a little more, and shake them out of this weird stalemate.

Upon seeing him again in front of the restaurant, though, Rachel found herself stifled by his icy calm, and it took all her determination to say, "I don't think I want to eat here tonight." But once she said it, the world seemed to snap into focus, and she smiled what felt like the first genuine smile she had managed in weeks.

"Let's try something downtown," she said brightly, gaining momentum Who could object to a little change of pace? "There's this place I've been wanting to go to for a while. Cuban food, some tapas, sangria, and there's after hours music."

Crane stared at her blankly for a moment, and then spared a regretful glance for the restaurant. The corners of his mouth turned down unpleasantly but he inclined his head and said smoothly, "As my lady wishes." Rachel smiled at this and was rewarded with his smile in return. She allowed him to lead her to his car, and open the door for her. After she got in, he bent down to make sure her dress and coat were fully inside, and looked up at her through sooty eyelashes.

"Come on," she said, laughing happily, "it'll be great." He closed the door and came around to the driver side of the car. "Just make the next left," she told him when they turned onto the street, "or the West Express will probably take us there," she added after he missed the last street going downtown.

"I don't think so, Rachel," he said without looking at her.

"What are you doing, Jonathan?" she asked sharply. They stopped at a red light and he turned to look at her. His face looked very pale in the darkness. "Where are we going?" she asked steadily, trying now to mask her fear.

"It's a surprise," he said, and he widened his eyes at her through his glasses. She smiled uneasily.

"But I thought . . ." she trailed off.

"We are not going to your Cuban place," he said. "You do not look well."

"I'm fine!" she snapped. "Let me out, now."

"In the Narrows? Don't be absurd, Rachel," he said as they drove on. "You seem so suspicious tonight. Are you sure you are feeling well?" The lulling tones of his voice, those same tones that had been so comforting to her last week and the week before, and the solicitous words were almost enough to calm her fears.

"I am feeling _fine_," she said tightly. "I am calling a cab, and you're going to let me out now." She opened her cell phone to do just that.

"Of course, I won't stop you," he said as he pulled into the garage beneath Arkham, "but I wish you'd come in so we could talk about this."

"Hello, Gotham Cab? Can you please send a car for Rachel Dawes up to Arkham. Yes, that is in the Narrows. Send an armored cab if you must, but just send one." As she closed her phone she felt a pressure on her arm through the thick fabric of her coat. She saw the hypodermic needle in Dr. Crane's hand, but did not have time to utter more than a short shriek before the prick of the needle and the smooth oblivion that followed.

Crane picked up her phone and dialed the previous number. "Gotham Cab? I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but we'll need to cancel that pick up. Yes, everything is fine. I do apologize."

* * *

Rachel awoke in a tiled room with her arms tied down at her sides and a nylon strap across her chest just below her breasts. She tried moving her legs and found that those, too were restrained—a strap around her thighs and another around her ankles. She turned her head to one side, and saw Dr. Crane looking at her, and holding a stopwatch in his hand.

"Two minutes and twenty-three seconds," he said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and wrote something in his notebook. "Interesting. You're heavier than you look." He walked around behind her head.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled.

"Experimentation, Miss Dawes," he said. "But you, you have been a very difficult subject."

"You're crazy," she said, trying to suppress the shiver that came over her.

"They all say that, here," he said. "It's a common enough symptom."

"People will miss me. My mother knew I was coming here tonight," she said desperately.

"I'm sure she did. How are her roses?" Dr. Crane looked at her intently again, and put his fingertips against her neck. "Pulse eighty, eighty-five, not bad. You probably have a considerable tolerance by now."

"Tolerance?" she said. She started to gulp with fear. She could feel her pulse coming more and more quickly. "You've been drugging me this whole time?" Rachel's voice was almost a squeak on the last word.

"Shhh, calm," he said, putting a finger to her lips. "Calm now. Of course."

"What, that drink?" She thought back through as much as she could of the past six weeks. Everything seemed a little vague.

"The drink, certainly, but flowers are an excellent vehicle as well," said Dr. Crane. "How do you feel?"

"Like I could kill you," she spat. The anger felt good, it clouded her vision but seemed to clear her head.

"Mmmm. No convulsions, that's good. Do you feel dizzy, or nauseated at all? Any shortness of breath?"

"Fuck you," she said venomously. He turned away from her for a moment to a set of vials and needles on a nearby tray. Rachel tried to feel how the straps were secured to her wrists, but even if she could get out, escape from the asylum and then the Narrows seemed difficult. _One thing at a time_, she reminded herself.

Dr. Crane turned back to her with a syringe in his hand. Under the fluorescent light in the corner, his face glowed like a marble angel's, all luminous curves and deep shadows. Something in his countenance made Rachel's blood go icy, and instead of hurling a new insult at him, she gulped back a sob.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

"Just answer my questions," he said mildly. He took a clipboard off of the tray, and paged through a few papers. "Please just answer the questions honestly." He walked around to her right arm, and tapped on the inside of her elbow a few times to raise the vein then slid the needle in. "It will take a few minutes to have an effect. You will probably become a little warm."

In a few minutes Rachel did start to sweat. She felt her bangs start to stick to her forehead, and a rivulet of perspiration started to flow down her neck. She felt it inching down her collarbone, and wished to have her hand free for just a moment to brush it away. Sweat dripped off her face and into her ears.

Over the next few hours Dr. Crane read questions to her in a steady monotone. Some regarded detailed ethical situations and quandaries, others minute points of law, and still others seemed like memory games. He paused a few times to lift up his glasses and massage the bridge of his nose, but for the most part, he showed neither fatigue nor impatience. Rachel became confused and tired as the night wore on; sometimes she felt as if her heart would beat its way out of her chest, and sometimes her breathing and pulse became so sluggish she thought she would lose consciousness.

Finally he flipped back the papers on his clipboard and took off his glasses. "You've learned too much. I can't allow you to leave with your mind intact. Unless—" he paused and licked his lips, "—unless we can reach an agreement. First, you agree to shield this institutions from any . . . unnecessary inquiries, and second, you allow certain motions to passed unchallenged. We can work out the details later." He smiled unpleasantly. "As I'm sure you are now aware, I do have the means to enforce any agreement we might make."

"Give you and your mob friends a free pass you mean?" said Rachel. "I don't think so. You can lock me up here in your nuthouse, turn my brain to tapioca, but there are going to be questions asked. People have noticed the effect of your drugs on me, and if I wind up here, you'll have police and DAs crawling all over this place."

"I'm sure you over-estimate your own importance, Miss Dawes," said Dr. Crane, "the insane usually do." He turned back to his table and prepared another vial, this one of a sedative mixed with a high percentage of his favorite memory drug.

Rachel tried one last time. "Whatever you do to me, someone is going to ask questions," she said, straining against the restraints.

Dr. Crane cocked his head to one side as he gave her the injection. "No, no they won't."

After he made certain Rachel was unconscious again, he opened up his notebook. _Possible effects of fear or anger dilute efficacy of sample 192_, he wrote Or perhaps the drug just did not work very well. All her answers had indicated confusion and fear, but her ability to distinguish right from wrong was disgustingly intact. _Closing Subject RD's file after final administration of Dose F._

Furthermore, she was probably correct—someone would come asking after her if anything untoward happened. He would have to return her to her regular life.

* * *

Rachel awoke in Dr. Crane's bed still wearing her burgundy dress. The windows were shadowed by the fire escape on the outside of the building, and although the clock said it was past noon, very little light came into the room.

"Good, you're awake," said Dr. Crane from the door.

"God, my head hurts," said Rachel, sitting up slowly. She took stock of herself—still fully dressed except shoes—but that didn't mean much.

"I should think so. That was quite a bit of sangria you drank." His tone was cool, and a little judgmental. Rachel shook her head a little to try to clear it, and instantly regretted it.

"I never drink that much. It's too dangerous for a woman to get drunk in Gotham," she said, confused. She spotted her bag on the floor with a rose sticking out of it. "Did I take that from the restaurant? What happened last night?"

"I've made you some coffee," said Dr. Crane. "Once you get up." Rachel frowned. There was some reason, wrapped up with the night before, that she should not drink anything he offered, but she could not think what.

"I don't think so. I'll just get the train." For once, he made no move to stop her, and she hastily gathered up her things and left.

During the long ride back downtown, she hugged her coat to her tightly, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. She wracked her brains trying to think what had happened to leave her so uneasy. She couldn't remember ever having consumed enough alcohol to black out—even in college she was too busy holding down waitress jobs and then working as a paralegal to indulge so much. She tried to dredge up some memory from the night before, but all she could remember was the lulling sound of Dr. Crane's voice, and the terrifying feeling of being trapped.

_This has to end_, she thought. _I don't know why, but I'm not myself around him. It has to stop._

* * *

"Good job on the brief, Rachel. The bosses are impressed," said Finch when he came in the next Monday. "And you're coming in early again. This is a good sign."

"I'm turning over a new leaf, Finch," she said with a smile. "You don't have to worry about me anymore." Finch gave her an odd look but nodded.

"Just keep it up, okay?"

Around noon the receptionist called her to tell her Dr. Crane was there to see her. Rachel froze where she sat, and felt a rushing in her head. She had hoped to have more time to compose herself before having to end things with him.

"Dr. Crane," she said evenly, when he came in carrying a bouquet of his trademark lilies. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

"Miss Dawes, this is becoming embarrassing," he said loudly.

"What?" said Rachel and frowned at him incredulously.

"The gifts, the flowers—" here he flung the bouquet on her desk, "—how many times do I have to tell you, I'm just not interested?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" she hissed. She saw people starting to poke their heads out of their offices all along the hallway.

"Honestly, Miss Dawes, can't you take a hint?" he said, still in that too-loud voice. Rachel blinked at him stupidly for a moment. Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door, but not before she saw a look of terrible smugness cross his face. Rachel debated storming after him, but that would only make her look worse, and after she was sure he had gone, she poked her head out of her office again.

"Really, he is beautiful, who could blame her?" she heard one of the secretaries say, before the woman saw her, and blushed.

"I was about to dump him!" she said, if dumping was even the right term for ending whatever it was they had.

"Sure, hon," the secretary said, and patted her on the arm.

**Post-script: 5 years later**

"The work offered by organized crime must hold some attraction for the insane," said Dr. Crane. Rachel looked at him with disgust showing plain on her face as he walked away.

_From the notebooks of Dr. Jonathan Crane . . ._

__

Addendum to Subject RD's file: Even though samples 183-192 proved ineffective, the case of Subject RD proved definitively the range of use and efficacy of Dose F. Although RD clearly has some subconscious knowledge, five years later, RD still has no memory of any specific events targeted by Dose F.

It is possible, however, that exposure to the fear toxin might cause her to relive them . . .

**The End**


End file.
